


Prophet of the Byways

by Vera (Vera_DragonMuse)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - American Gods Fusion, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-15 03:14:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29677557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vera_DragonMuse/pseuds/Vera
Summary: They were born out of wet tar and truck stop coffee, stomping yellow paint across the wiggling blacklines that zig-zagged across America.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 7
Kudos: 28





	1. Chapter 1

Rain sheeted over the windshield, the wipers going triple time trying to keep it clear. Even his music was consumed by the pounding of water, muffled into a mumbling tinny sound. It was his third straight day on the road, halfway between nowhere and somewhere.

Dean was happy. He hummed along with the music, so familiar that he didn’t even really need the tape in the player to know the next notes. There was a coffee still steaming in the good thermos he’d gotten for his birthday last year. He was alone on the road, just two headlights between him and the yawning night. 

Or he was alone until he spotted a man under a street light. It was the quickest of glances, but that’s all he needed to spot no umbrella, no hood. Just an exposed head and that indistinguishable lostness of a hitchhiker. 

He slowed, considering, but it was never really a question. He reversed, rolled the window down just a crack. 

“You need a ride?” he called out. For a moment, it seemed the guy didn’t hear, but then he was in motion. 

Dean pulled a blanket out of the back seat, whipping it over the seat before the door could crack open. The guy slid in, and sat down on it. The smell of the rain and lightning clung to him, filling the Impala with the storm that she had held at bay. 

“You okay?” Dean gave him a frank appraisal. He didn’t look that wet. The guy looked back. His eyes were- were-

“Hello, Dean,” a deep sonorous voice came out of the lean body. “Can you take me where you’re going?” 

“How-” had he introduced himself already? Dean looked back out the windshield. “I’m going all the way to Idaho, man.” 

“That’s fine,” the stranger turned away. “That will get me where I’m going.” 

“You got a name?” Dean pushed into drive. If the guy kept being weird, well he needed gas soon enough and he wasn’t above a suckerpunch to get rid of a creep.

“Not yet. Not entirely,” the guy’s voice was deep and cool as a lake. “But I think I will soon.”

“Okay then,” Dean gave him a tight smile, navigating through the darkness. 

The guy didn’t talk and Dean wasn’t in the mood to cajole small talk out of him, so he just watched the road and listened to the muffled beats of his music. He was a little tired, getting that gritty feeling around his eyes that suggested stopping for a stretch break at least when it happened. 

The pickup truck barreled down the road, one headlight out. Dean swerved, capable and unafraid, but the pickup driver wasn’t so experienced. They went over and Dean swore, breaking hard and putting Baby into park. He jumped out, running toward the accident. 

The acrid smell of smoke was already scorching the air. The door was jammed shut. 

A baby cried. 

“Shit,” he pulled at the door, trying to make out the people within, see if anyone was conscious. He fumbled out his phone, called 911, putting them on speaker as he jammed the phone into the chest pocket of his jacket so he could keep trying the door. 

The phone rang and rang. The smoke billowed. 

“Please,” Dean gritted his teeth. “C’mon. Please.” 

“Here,” the hitchhiker was at his elbow. He touched Dean’s arm, barely perceptible through the thick leather of his jacket. “Try again.” 

“You could help,” he snarled, but he tried again and the door unjammed all at once. The guy behind the wheel was suspended upside down by his seatbelt. 

“They will survive,” the hitchhiker intoned. 

“Hey, man,” Dean reached into the car. He knew better than to touch the guy. He used the flashlight on his phone, shining it in the guy’s face. He blinked and woke up. Fuck yeah. “Hey, you’re okay. It’s gonna be okay.” 

“911, please state your emergency,” a woman asked breathless on the phone. 

“Hi, I’m at the site of an accident on Route 54 outside of Islington,” Dean stayed squatted down making sure the bleeding guy could hear him. “Flipped pickup truck and there’s a baby in the backseat.”

Dean stayed until the ambulance came, talking to the guy and trying to soothe the baby as best he could. Even once they showed, he only drove a little ahead, hiding out in the shadows that had probably tricked the pickup driver in the first place. He watched until they got the baby out and the driver was on a gurney. 

Nothing else he could do after that. He got back on the road and drove until the dawn came up. The car had a strange smell, something like fresh laid road and burnt rubber. 

Dean drove on alone. The rain let up eventually. 

__

  
_The God of the Byways was born on a fork of Route 66, emerging whole cloth from a lyric of a song written by a night bard. He stepped out breathing and covered in hot asphalt, the wet thump of it against the ground the first rhythm in his bass line. The God of the Byways didn’t have a name, only purpose. He'd been delivered wet and gasping off a guitar string and into the fresh night. He stumbled, then walked in a straight line, laying down yellow paint with the bare soles of his feet. He possessed the body of a believer, delivered at his feet by the unrelenting grind of metal upon metal, the great beasts of rumbling engines that collided in the night._

_Somewhere out there, a human baby was born the ordinary way and he'd never been on the road. Dean Winchester, quiet in his crib, drew his first breath along with a fresh born deity that was 700 miles or more away. They took that first breath in unison, expelled it with a lonely cry and from then on their hearts beat as one._

_The prophet of the byways didn't touch the road until he was four years old, but he hit it running. He and his brother and his father, like a buckshot load of testosterone and horror, shot out over the streets._

__\- Chapter 1, Verse 1 _The Book of Sam_

_Cas was born at 3PM on Thursday afternoon across the street from a Texaco gas station. He thinks it was 1961, but he’s not sure. An accountant died in a car crash that night and Cas took the body which sounds gnarly, but apparently the guy was already a true believer or something. He spoke to one person before that and nearly killed her So, the raw face of a god is not to be fucked with. Voice either._

Chapter 1, Verse 1, _The Gospel of Dean_


	2. Chapter 2

These days Dean had a job, a sort of purpose. His car was his own, but the insurance was paid by Low Key Shipping and Transportation, bringing packages that required special handling from one side of the country to the other. He never delivered to the same place twice, no package ever looked like another. They came in all shapes and sizes and more than once they'd made some noises or rattled. But his father told him to never look inside when he first handed over the gig, so Dean never did. Just accepted the boxes from a warehouse in Meridian where they waited and swept them away to where they belonged.

He lived on the pavement, the asphalt, concrete and dirt that laced it's way across the vast screaming wilderness of America. Also in hotels, motels, and occasionally a bed and breakfast. 

His mail collected in a PO Box in Meridian, just down the street from the warehouse. The only sure destination in his route. He cleaned it out when he could, writing back to Sam in cramped letters on the back of cheap postcards and sending out addressless missives to Dad like a kid sending lists to Santa. Sometimes he and Charlie would exchange endless notes across the world, pages and pages folded over and over, stuffed into international envelopes. 

Today the box was empty though, so he drove right on to the pick up point. There was the usual guy in the security booth, 

“Hey, Steve,” Dean gave him a bright grin. 

“Winchester,” Steve sighed and hit the button that raised the gate. 

Six years of coming here and not once had Steve made eye contact with him. Dean wasn’t a hundred percent sure the guy had eyes frankly or a forehead for that matter. He wore a baseball cap perpetually pulled down low, casting shadows over what wasn’t directly covered. 

When he rolled into the lot, there were only a few cars around. Once Dean had shown up to a full-blown carnival going in the lot, and another every space filled with a different brightly colored VW Bug. There was in theory staff in the building, but he had never been invited in the front door. Just directed to the loading bay where the garage door would roll open as he stepped up. 

“Hey,” Georgia would greet him. She had a thick unidentifiable accent, a gold front tooth and a bushy shock of faded pink curls on her head. “Good to see you in one piece.” 

“Good to see you too,” Dean nodded. He didn’t insult her with a bright smile. “How’s the family?” 

“Growing,” she made a note on her ever present clipboard, “my daughter’s pregnant again.” 

“Congrats.” 

“Thanks. You do okay out there this time?” 

“Sure,” he shrugged. “Saw a hell of an accident, but everyone made it out alive.” 

“All you can ask for.” 

“Sure is.” 

She handed him a flat wide package, “It’s your favorite.” 

“Nooo, not Florida,” he groaned even as he accepted it. “I’m going to sweat my balls off. Can’t I swap?” 

“No one else to take this one,” she gave him a sympathetic look. “Maybe it’ll rain.” 

It didn’t rain. As Dean slid further south, the temperature climbed. Baby’s tried her best to choke out cooled air through the vents, but it wasn’t her finest feature. The nights were alright though. He switched up to his summer routine, taking long naps in superstore parking lots where he could go unnoticed for hours, then driving through the night. He got to see the stars at least, clear and bright as anything. 

The package was going all the way to the Keys, so he slid through the sogginess of the whole damn state. Around Homestead, on the 997, he pulled into a gas station. He stretched upwards until his left shoulder gave a soft pop and his back rumbled back into place. Then he strolled into the small convenience store. He needed something cold to get him along, maybe a cherry coke or some kind of icee.

The air conditioning greeted him as he slid into gratifyingly chill and dry air. He moved through the shelves. There was a cheap novelty pen with a gator sliding through glitter liquid at the top. He picked it up, already planning on adding it to the little box of tacky nonsense he sent to Sam every year on the holidays. 

The back of his neck prickled as he heard the door open again behind him. He frowned and moved further into the tight shelved shop, reaching into the refrigerated case for a soda, no longer tempted to futz around with the antique slurpee machine. 

“I told you,” the scarecrow boy behind the register squeaked, “I can’t just give you free shit.” 

“Then you better turn out your pockets,” someone growled. “You owe me big time.” 

Dean sighed and moved slowly to the front of the store. The growler was a beefier, twenty-something with a closed off expression. 

“I didn’t-” 

“Give me the cigs, c’mon, this doesn’t have to be a big deal.” 

He cleared his throat. Both eyes turned to him and he held up his soda, fritos and pen, “I just want to check out.” 

The growler shifted uncomfortably, eyeing him up as Dean moved around him to set his stuff on the counter. The guy was definitely fucked up on something and ready for a fight. Dean set his shoulders, getting out his wallet. He saw the flash of metal and managed to move out of the knife’s path. He turned quickly, not waiting for a demand of cash to throw a hard punch. It was the kind of haymaker that usually floored someone, but clearly the growler was on the good stuff. He jerked back and held his ground, knife still pointed at Dean like it was definitely going in. 

“You sonofabitch,” the growler tried to loom over him, too bad Dean was taller, “give me your cash.” 

Dean held up his hands, “No can do, man.You know there’s a security camera in here, right? You wanna go to prison over twenty bucks and a pack of cigs?” 

“Shut up!” The knife flashed again, but stopped midair. 

“Drop it,” said a low voice that put the growler’s attempts at menace to shame. 

“Hey,” Dean studied his sudden defender. “I know you.” 

“Yes,” and those eyes met his and Dean felt flayed open. “You know me well, Dean Winchseter.” 

First the knife and the growler himself, fell to the floor in a clatter. 

“Did you need a ride?” Dean asked him. 

“We’re already riding together.” 

“Oh,” Dean frowned and turned to the cashier, “you press your alarm?” 

“Yeah,” the kid was white as a sheet. 

“You want me to wait until the cops get here?” 

The kid said no in a way that meant yes, so Dean stuck around outside. The growler didn’t get off the ground as he sucked down most of the cherry coke. Once he saw the red and blues, he got into the Impala and pulled out sedately, gone before they pulled in. 

“You attract trouble,” the hitchhiker said, opening the Fritos and taking a handful. 

“I’m just going where I’m told,” Dean sighed. “You headed for Key West or something?” 

“I’m going where you’re going,” he said gravely. 

A few minutes later, Dean went to get his chips out of the thin plastic bag. They were already open and half-gone. He snorted, annoyed with himself for checking out like that and finished them off before he spilled back onto Route 1. He was day-dreaming about a slice of key lime pie as he traveled the Overseas Highway. 

“You should stay on Stock Island for the night.” 

“Scuse me?” Dean glanced into the empty passenger seat. 

There was no one there to answer. 

The hotels were vacation places, too pricey for him, so Dean pulled into a parking lot with a few RVs scattered around to shield him and slept under the pockmarked moon. 

In the morning, there was a small white box on the passenger seat wrapped in a bakery’s white and red twine. Dean studied it suspiciously. The doors were all locked. No other sign that anyone had fucked with anything. The package was undisturbed. 

Carefully, Dean opened the box like it might try to knife him. 

Inside was one pristine slice of key lime pie. 

It was one hell of a breakfast.

  
_There are gods that demand blood. There are gods that want the gory visceral heart of the people that follow them. They want obedience and faith so deep that it cores out the inside of a person. They want power and they have an appetite that cannot be filled. Some of them are tricksters or seducers. Some provoke greed and starve out the masses where they can. They are sticky-fingered, short fused, and fickle. They say there is a difference between the new gods and the old, but to an ordinary person they are mostly the same._

_Castiel tells us that he wants something else. That he has a different vision and a new purpose._

The Book of Sam, Chapter 1, Verse 2 

_Gods are a pain in the ass. Especially ones that look at you like you’re breaking their heart when you won’t share your fries. Get your own fries! Summon fries from the depths of hell or whatever. He makes a good grilled cheese though._

The Gospel of Dean, Chapter 4, verse 3. 


End file.
